And by the end of September he felt that he had gained real headway with Elizabeth. He had come to a point where she needed him more than she realized, where the call in her of youth for youth, even in trouble, was insistent. In return he felt his responsibility and responded to it. In the vernacular of the town he had “settled down,” and the general trend of opinion, which had previously disapproved him, was now that Elizabeth might do worse.
On a crisp night early in October he had brought her home from Nina's, and because the moon was full they sat for a time on the steps of the veranda, Wallie below her, stirring the dead leaves on the walk with his stick, and looking up at her with boyish adoring eyes when she spoke. He was never very articulate with her, and her trouble had given her a strange new aloofness that almost frightened him. But that night, when she shivered a little, he reached up and touched her hand.
“You're cold,” he said almost roughly. He was sometimes rather savage, for fear he might be tender.
“I'm not cold. I think it's the dead leaves.”
“Dead leaves?” he repeated, puzzled. “You're a queer girl, Elizabeth. Why dead leaves?”
“I hate the fall. It's the death of the year.”
“Nonsense. It's going to bed for a long winter's nap. That's all. I'll bring you a wrap.”
He went in, and came out in a moment with her father's overcoat.
“Here,” he said peremptorily, “put this on. I'm not going to be called on the carpet for giving you a sniffle.”
She stood up obediently and he put the big coat around her. Then, obeying an irresistible impulse, he caught her to him. He released her immediately, however, and stepped back.